Spelling, Grammar And Punctuation? Who Cares? (I do.)

I was scrolling through Facebook or Instagram or one of those (sometimes) waste-of-time sites the other day. Actually, I was waiting for my mini-bagel to toast without burning. I’d put one in the toaster and then walked away for a minute to start the washing machine. When I came back, the bagel was burned so badly that when I put the two sides together, it resembled a hockey puck.

 

Not exactly appetizing.

 

If I had been my mother (or still living with her when she was paying the grocery bill), I would have scraped all the burned bits off until it was semi-edible and my hands, knife and the kitchen sink were covered in black ash. But I’m not my mother and I’m responsible for my own grocery bill, so I tossed an entire mini-bagel into the trash can and dropped a second bagel into the toaster.

 

I knew I couldn’t be distracted again so I stood rooted by the toaster. Meanwhile, my technological brain had to be entertained for that nanosecond, so I started scrolling. (What has happened to us that we must constantly scroll social media? It’s mind-boggling. And it is a topic for another day…)

 

Anyway, there I was scrolling. I happened to have my air pod in because I’d been on the phone with my brother earlier, so a video started playing. At this point, I was mostly listening to whatever audio popped up so I could keep my eye on the toaster.

 

Naturally, it was an ad. Hey, once we eliminated ads on many streaming services, the ads had to show up somewhere, right? Seriously, though, it’s kind of out of control. Most of the time, I can scroll on by. But there I was, waiting for the perfectly toasted bagel to pop out of the toaster without incinerating, so I was a captive audience.

 

And what I heard made me scramble for the pause button.

 

It started off okay. The male voice asked me if I was single. (I know where your mind is headed – but you can turn back around. It wasn’t one of those kinds of ads!)

 

Turns out, it was for a food service. Their “master chefs” prepare these delicious meals for one – and they ship them to you at your convenience. No dirty pots and pans. No messy kitchens. No food waste.

 

No burned bagels as a meal, perhaps?

 

When I glanced at the meal he was talking about, it was a perfectly prepared delicious-looking meal. In 2025, we call it food prepared by a master chef. In the ‘60s, we called them TV dinners.

 

Nevertheless, it did spark my interest. I’m terrible at food preparation these days. I shamefully toss half-filled containers of mushy strawberries, blueberries and brown lettuce into the trash because I didn’t plan better – or I couldn’t bear to wash and chop and slice and mix up a salad. If the salad is the meal, I rarely think ahead to defrost the chicken in time to add to that freshly prepared salad – so I, oh, I don’t know, toast a bagel and call it a day.

 

I have a friend who calls those dinners her Raisin Bran meals.

 

Are meal kit delivery companies expensive? Sure, they are. But if we factor in the cost of the food I’m already wasting, then they might just be a little more affordable.

 

Vince and I had tried a few different meal prep companies in years’ past. We liked some of them and weren’t crazy about others. Eventually, we stopped them all. Mostly because it was hard to know ahead of time what our schedule was going to be like for the upcoming weeks. And we’d end up having a stockpile of food that started going bad before we could prepare the meals.

 

After Vince passed, I knew I didn’t want to subscribe to one of these food service companies because they are portioned for two. At a minimum of three meals per week, I knew I wouldn’t eat six of those meals.

 

I know of several other single women who have tried these meal prep companies and they had the same complaint. Too much food for one person, resulting in guilty waste.

 

So this ad had me a bit intrigued. Maybe there is a company that caters to a single person.

 

Once I tossed my slightly under-toasted bagel onto the plate, I turned my attention back to the ad. I pressed “play” again.

 

The narrator was talking about convenience. About carefully crafted meals with fresh ingredients. And then I heard…

 

…“Designed to be ate anywhere…”

 

WHAT??

 

Immediately, I dismissed this food service company.

 

Look, I know I’m not the most proper writer. I frequently use “And” and “But” to start a sentence. I’m fully aware that’s not proper sentence structure.

 

I can never remember what a conjunction or an interjection is, and I seriously doubt I could diagram a sentence with any level of confidence.

 

I am, however, pretty good with most of the basic rules of grammar. The use of past, present and future tense with the correlating verb is a pretty basic grammatical rule. One, I’m guessing, I learned in grade school.

 

So to have a company ad selling what I imagine are pricey food meal kits with such a glaring error in its ad? Well, that is simply shoddy marketing.

 

How difficult would it have been for someone to check their sentence structure? They would easily have discovered that “Designed to be ate anywhere” is incorrect and should instead be, “Designed to be eaten anywhere.”

 

Arrrggh!

 

One of my biggest pet peeves is whenever I hear, “I seen…” Doesn’t matter what he or she saw by that point. I don’t care to continue listening.

My friend Sue was driving behind a truck in Florida advertising Yacht Management. You figure anyone who owns a yacht probably has a pretty good grip on, oh, grammar and spelling - right? The first service they offered was providing a captain to steer the yacht. Only they spelled "captain" wrong. On the truck advertising their services. (Insert eye rolling emoji here.)

Wonder how many clients they've lost without even realizing it? 

 

Other things that drive me a little bonkers are apostrophes in the wrong place (or shouldn’t be used at all), the whole they’re/their/there and your/you’re errors. I try really hard to ignore them, though, because grammar, punctuation and spelling don’t seem to be as important in our text-to-speech and AI Brave New World.

 

I’m trying to be a little more understanding, lest someone toss the derogatory, “Hey Boomer” insult my way.

 

In the meantime, I’m going to toast another bagel for dinner. After all, it’s designed to be ate anywhere.

 

Isn’t it?!

Is it Fall? Or Christmas?

I think Mother Nature is confused. It’s October, which is hard enough for me to believe, but some of the small trees in my neighborhood have already shed their brightly colored leaves. They were pretty for about a half a second – and then they were on the ground where Maggie and I have been crunching them underfoot on our daily walks.

 

Okay, that’s sort of normal for this time of year – maybe a little soon for the foliage to completely surrender. But it was also in the mid- to upper-70s last week. So which is it, Mother Nature? Late Summer or Early Fall?

 

Both, I guess. Because this morning the temps plummeted to the upper 30s. Brrr.

 

And now I have to say what I say every Fall: I’m. Not. Ready. For. This!

 

Of course, some people I know have been ready for Fall since sometime around mid-July. And others have even started in on Christmas. That, for sure, I’m not ready for.

 

But it does no good to complain as the changing of the seasons is going to come whether we’re ready for it or not.

 

Doesn’t mean I’m breaking out my warmest winter coat just yet. But I did unearth a pair of gloves the other morning.

 

And it also doesn’t mean I’m breaking out the Christmas tree and all my pretty, sparkly decorations either. I promised myself this year I’m going to let the fall holidays have their due before I haul out the tree.

 

Even if I’m not a big fan of orange.

 

Besides, I have a ton of pumpkins – glass, ceramic and fabric – and they do me no good tucked away in a tote in the garage.

 

And – c’mon – it’s me.  In addition to the one or two orange pumpkins, I also have hot pink and mint green pumpkins. Who needs to be realistic in Jane’s Domain?!

 

I have a neighbor down the street who is equally as confused as Mother Nature. Last night when Maggie and I passed their place, I saw an entire pumpkin and gourd display in their yard, complete with orange lights and Dollar Store scarecrows.

 

But, since their blinds were open and I could see past the kitchen and into their living room, I also noticed they’ve already put up their six-foot Christmas tree.

 

You can’t even fake that it’s their “Fall” (read: both Halloween and Thanksgiving) tree since red, yellow, blue and green lights shout neither “Trick or Treat” nor “Happy Thanksgiving”!

 

I don’t know whether or not they’ve decorated the tree with ornaments yet, mostly because I didn’t want to get caught staring. I’d have to maneuver through their bales of hay to press my nose up to the glass – and I’m not that curious. Plus, I don’t relish the idea of getting arrested as a Peeping Tom, er, Jane.

 

Who’d walk Maggie before I got bailed out?

 

I used to get a little grumpy when stores rushed the holidays. First, they put up Christmas decorations immediately after Halloween, along with their 50% off bags of Fun-Size Snickers and Almond Joys. Then they started putting up their displays before Halloween. Now, you can barely get through Labor Day without seeing a few garlands and ornaments and trees decking the halls by the first of September.

 

No wonder people get confused and start decorating for all the last quarter of the year holidays concurrently. It’s a HalloThanksMas kind of experience.

 

But, hey. In my old age, I’ve decided that people can do whatever they want.

 

I’ll just stay here in my little corner of the world enjoying my hot pink and mint green pumpkins.

 

And I’ll work on keeping warm. Or cool. Depending on what Mother Nature decides.

 

A Big Project in Jane’s Domain

Earlier this past week I had one of those days where I had many things I should have been doing, some things I needed to do and a few things I wanted to do. Instead, I sat here at my computer and started to write.

 

But, then, writing is something that combines all of the above. So that can’t be a bad thing, can it?

 

It was the 28^th of June, and if my parents were still alive, they’d have been celebrating 71 years of marriage. As it was, they were able to celebrate their 63^rd anniversary and were literally three days shy of their 64^th when Dad passed in 2016.

 

I still think of them every day and am so glad they lived good, long lives. And they were able to show us what a happy, healthy, loving marriage looked like.

 

That day I also learned that a high school friend, who has been fighting pancreatic cancer, found out the cancer had spread to his liver. Pancreatic cancer is one of those scary ones. But he was truly fighting – and I believed he was going to beat it. I still believe he can, but the news brought tears to my eyes. And this is a person I haven’t seen since I was seventeen. I can still picture him in Mr. Seavy’s World History class, giving me grief because if I didn’t know the answer to a question, Mr. Seavy was going to give the entire class a pop quiz.

 

(And, c’mon. I knew the answer!)

 

But if anyone can beat cancer, he can, so I’ll continue to keep him in my prayers. If you can, as well, I’d appreciate it. And if you don’t pray – then send good thoughts, vibes or whatever voodoo you do out into the cosmos for healing.

 

The subject of the blog I was intending to write escapes me now as I’ve just gotten back to my computer to finish it. Since I’m not a duck, I guess sad news is harder to slide off my back than, well, water would.

 

Or something like that.

 

Anyway, I ended up spending the day working on a project I’ve been meaning to start for more than six years when I cleaned out my parents’ house. And that is – to organize the boxes and bins of photos I have stashed away in the spare room closets. I want to sort through, toss the blurry or bad ones, scan the good ones, and then get rid of the hard copies.

 

These aren’t only my parents’ photos, but those two or three extra boxes and bins were enough to add to the scope of the project and make it really challenging.

 

Because I, myself, took many, many photos through the years. And in the thirteen years we were together, Vince took even more. But so did my dad. He brought his trusty camera with him on every globe-trotting trip he and mom took. And after he got those photos developed, he carefully labeled each one and placed them in a small album dedicated to that particular trip so that they had photographic evidence of them all.

 

If something came up in casual conversation about a name of a town in a foreign country, Dad would excuse himself, find the album and bring it down to show us the photo and describe the significance of that town.

 

When he met Vince and learned the spelling of “Cordova,” he stood up and left the room. Dad was not someone anyone would ever describe as rude, so I just looked at Vince and shrugged. But soon Dad came back to the family room with an album showing numerous photos of Cordova, Alaska, from a cruise he and Mom took years prior.

 

Sadly, these photo albums don’t have the same significance to us as they did for mom and dad – and no one wants a shelf full of travel photo albums to places that we didn’t travel.

 

That breaks my heart a little bit, but I simply don’t have the shelving real estate necessary to keep them all. And my closet space is at a premium, too, and I’d like to free it up for, oh, I don’t know, clothes, maybe. Or shoes. You know, stuff that’s supposed to go in a closet?

 

So my plan is to look through the books and find photos of mom and dad that we might like to have – photos from a time when they were healthy and able to enjoy and remember every moment of the particular trip they were on. Then I’ll scan those photos for my family members.

 

Great plan, eh?

 

Yeah, well. I’m now in the thick of this great plan and my living room is filled with small bins of photos that I have separated into categories. Photos from my childhood years. College years. Adult years. Family photos. Friend photos. Vince photos.

 

My living room looks like one of those old Foto-Mat kiosks exploded. (Remember those?!)

 

Yikes.

 

Now, of course, I’m torn because I have other things I need to do. There’s a stack of financial paperwork on my dining room table for a project I’m working on. There’s a stack of clothing in my bedroom that I started to sort for donation or resale purposes.

 

And there’s a stack of large, unmarked bills in a duffel bag that I need to count and then launder.

 

So I have a lot of projects going on.

 

Yeah, yeah. I know. Obviously that last one isn’t true. I was just checking to see if you were still paying attention. Besides, I’d be the person who’d actually put the bills in the washing machine because I didn’t understand the concept of “money laundering.”

 

Crime would NOT pay in my case.

 

Anyway, I digress.

 

And I procrastinate, too. So I’d better get back to those photos. Since I’ve gotten this far, I can’t stop now. It absolutely cannot be six more years before I start scanning them.

 

Wish me a little luck – and a whole lotta perseverance.

 

Could’ve Fooled Me. (And Did!)

This past summer I walked a lot with Maggie Minx. Wait. Who am I kidding? I walk Maggie Minx a lot ALL seasons – not just summer. But during the summer, I’m not as anxious to get back inside and out of the wind and rain and snow.

 

So my summer strolls included more observations and I enjoyed looking at the pond in the middle of the complex here. There is a fountain, and I enjoyed watching the water tumble and fall and create ripples that sparkled in the sun.

 

There were a lot of ducks early in the spring, but they made a mess out of the walking path, so we avoided it lest we risk getting nasty duck poop on our shoes and paws. Frankly, I knew I’d be careful where I stepped, but Maggie doesn’t pay all that much attention. And, since she’s not the one cleaning the floor, she is blithefully unaware and doesn’t much care where she steps.

 

So we mostly stuck to the sidewalk for our daily walks.

 

Anyway, sometime around mid-June, I noticed there weren’t as many ducks. And I glanced over at the far side of the pond and saw two white swans. I was thrilled to see them as I think they’re beautiful creatures.

 

So all summer I’d see the swans floating around in the pond, but toward the end of the fall I started wondering about their habits. Shouldn’t they be getting ready to migrate south for the winter?

 

These swans weren’t leaving.

 

And – just as suddenly – it occurred to me that I’d never seen the swans out of the water. Nor had I ever seen them flap their wings.

 

And THEN it occurred to me that they weren’t real swans!

 

I know, I know – all you geniuses would’ve immediately known they were fake swans. And it took me more than three months to figure it out.

 

What’s worse, I’d been showing off “my” swans to friends who visited. I’m sure they thought they were real, too, as none of us ventured to the far side of the pond to check them out.

 

Fortunately, I confirmed with someone that they were, indeed, fake swans that had been placed in the pond to reduce the number of geese and ducks from flocking there.

 

I say “fortunately” because a few days later the temperature dropped below freezing with snow and ice on the water and the swans were “stuck” in the ice. Had I thought they were real, I might have called some wildlife rescue to save them, which would have been, well, mortifying.

 

All I could do was laugh at myself for my gaffe. 

 

But this sort of thing happens a lot.

 

Like last week, a couple friends came over to visit. One friend asked me what the plants were in front of my neighbor’s hedges. I said I didn’t know – that she had planted them last summer.

 

I’d never really given them more than a cursory glance because I’m not one to dig in the dirt. And it’s not like I planned to plant some of my own.

 

Also, I don’t know the names of plants. I don’t know whether they need direct or indirect sunlight or how often they need to be watered. It’s a miracle that the six indoor plants I own have lived as long as they have – and a few of them have even survived my move last year.

 

And, no, I don’t know the names of them. I identify them by calling them the “spiky” one or the “frondy” one.

 

My friend, by the way, can tell you the genus and species of many plants. If that includes the Latin or Greek name of it, she knows it.

 

Yeah, I know. Perhaps I should’ve paid more attention when I was younger and I wouldn’t have to resort to calling my snake plant the “spiky” one.

 

Mom had a green thumb and she tried to impart some of her knowledge back in the day, but I didn’t get the appeal of kneeling outside digging in the dirt. Mom called it therapeutic. I just called it messy. Cleaning dirt from under my fingernails? Uh, no.

 

Anyway. After my friends had left and it was time to walk Maggie later that evening, I walked past my neighbor’s house. I furtively bent down and touched one of the plants – and discovered they were plastic!

 

Yeesh. I had given her the benefit of the doubt that she’d found some sort of plant that would survive all year.

 

But I had to give myself a little bit of a break. After all, a couple of my former neighbors had small white flowers that bloomed in the winter. (I just looked it up because, naturally, I couldn’t remember the name. They’re called “Snowdrops” and they will bloom even when there is snow on the ground.)

 

Still. I had to wonder if I’m just that obtuse or do I simply not pay much attention to things that don’t interest me?

 

Let’s go with the latter. Obtuse is not an adjective I really want to use to describe myself.

 

Lately, I’ve been watching some Tiktok guy @SydneyRaz who starts off with “Here’s Something I Didn’t Know Until I was in my 30s…”

 

And I watch his videos because I want to make sure I know about these things. You never know what you don’t know – right? 

On the other hand, I was glad that I already knew that the top rack in a dishwasher can be adjusted and that you can put a wooden spoon over a pot of boiling water and it won’t boil over.

 

Whew.

 

But clearly there were things I didn’t know until I was in my 60s…like sometimes swans in ponds and plants planted outside can be fake.

 

Now I know. Can’t fool me twice.

 

 

Hit the Reset Button

 

I took a deliberate sabbatical this week. Seems weird – right? I mean, the first week of a New Year is supposed to be Go-Go-Go. You've gotta start on all those New Year’s Resolutions (if you made any).

 

It’s the big push to begin afresh in the new year.

 

If the Christmas decorations are still up, you need to take those down and pack them away for another year.

 

And if your fridge is still filled with holiday foods and leftovers, you need to clear those right on out to get started on that Keto / low carb/ meatless / no dairy, no gluten, no sugar / water-and-cardboard diet.

 

I even heard it’s supposed to be a no alcohol Dry January.

 

Aw, c’mon…

 

Well, actually, it has been Dry January in Jane’s Domain insofar as I haven’t had a glass of wine all week. Not because I’m adhering to a “rule” some influencer set, but because I’ve been hermit-ing it this week and I don’t often have a drink when I’m home by myself.

 

Nothin’ sadder than a hermit sitting all alone in the dark bingeing on a bottle of Ménage à Trois Soft Red blend while simultaneously binge-watching Firefly Lane on Netflix.

 

But, seriously, I’ve gotta tell you – it has been a transforming week for me.

 

See, I was supposed to be on vacation these first two weeks of January, but we had to cancel the trip. Only I forgot to cancel Maggie Minx’ reservation at her little doggie Spa ‘n’ Play. Rather than lose the deposit, I decided to bring her there for a few days so we could get a mutual break. She can run and play with her doggie friends – as well as get a bath and a canine mani-pedi – and I can hit the “Reset” button.

 

The past seven years have been filled with dog-walking, dog-feeding and dog-tending responsibilities. Except when we were on vacation. And even then it’s usually a frenetic time of packing, traveling and adjusting to a new time zone or a different climate – until it’s time to do it all in reverse.

 

Don’t get me wrong – I love Maggie Minx. And I love to travel. Visiting new places and spending time with the people I care about is absolutely essential for my soul. But there is a kind of stress involved with vacations. 

I’m not the kind of person who nonchalantly tosses a few necessities in a duffel bag and takes off. Not without first making and revising numerous lists and piling clothes and accessories on the spare room bed weeks before the trip in anticipation of what I absolutely can’t travel without.

 

What can I tell you – I’m admittedly a little high maintenance. Vince knew it – and just let me be me. He’d even ask me for his list of Pre-Trip “to-do’s” and would get them done without complaint. What a guy.

 

Anyway.

 

This sabbatical has been good for me.

 

I’ve slept better this week than I have in a long time. I haven’t had to get up before I’m ready to get up. I drink my morning coffee while contemplating my day and spending quiet time being grateful for my life and the people I have in it.

 

I’ve not been out of the house all week. Since I was supposed to be out of town, I had no lunches or dinners with friends scheduled. No appointments. And no trips to the library, post office or gas station to complete.

 

I’ve slowly de-Christmased my surroundings without rushing the process and feeling stressed.

 

I have made lists of things I’d like to accomplish this year. But I’ve tried to be realistic about how much I can accomplish and how I can manage smaller chunks rather than attempting to make big sweeping changes.

 

Look. I’m never going to be the water-and-cardboard-diet-loving kind of person. But I can make small changes that will improve my health. And I’m never going to live in an HGTV kind of home because I have junk closets (not just drawers). But I can tackle those closets a little at a time until I’m satisfied with what possessions I keep and how they are stored.

 

We spend so much of our adult lives trying to be, well, adults. Responsible. Taking care of the things we’re supposed to take care of. And most of the time, we do these things because we ARE adults and we take those responsibilities seriously.

 

If you’re a parent, well, forget about it. You won’t have this chance for many years. Same if you’re still working. If you take a week off and decide on a “staycation,” you’re still trying to get projects completed around the house that you can’t get done on the weekend.

 

So I get it. Not many people have this opportunity. But this little sabbatical of mine has been rare and wonderful and I’ve been so grateful I could manage it.

 

But now I’m starting to get the itch to go back to my “normal” life. To get out and about. To see my friends and catch up. And even to get back to the gym, which I started going back to a month ago to rebuild some lost muscle on these old bones.

 

And I have to say – I missed Maggie Minx more than I thought I would. Well, perhaps not the nightly restriction of rolling over without dislodging a sleepy Yorkie. But the rest of it. Our multiple daily walks. And having her warm little body nap on my legs while I read a book or binge-watch Netflix.

 

But I won’t be watching Firefly Lane. I finished it this week. And not that bottle of Ménage à Trois Soft Red blend. I’ll wait until I have a friend over to share it with.

 

If you ever get the chance to have a deliberate sabbatical – even if it’s just for a weekend – I highly recommend it.

 

Now if you’ll excuse me, it appears to be dog-walking time.

 

And just like that – sabbatical over.

 

The Many Stages of Grief

Recently I was sitting in Vince’s old easy chair covered with a fluffy blanket as well as the fluffy dog (she’s way overdue for her grooming). I was drinking my morning coffee and watching the snow fall outside.

 

I was comfy and warm and I picked up a book on grief sent to me by a friend who lost her husband only a few short months ago. She said that it helped her and she thought maybe it would help me, too.

 

It does. But sometimes it feels like it doesn’t.

 

Every single time I read one of the passages, something resonates with me and I’ll start crying.

 

Sometimes the tears last only a moment or two – but sometimes I’ll find myself weepy on and off for the rest of the day.

 

I’d rather not cry if I can help it, but I mostly can’t help it.

 

Grief is a weird thing. I remember reading a long time ago about the “stages” of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. That a person goes through each stage until they finally accept that their loved one is gone, is not coming back and they need to move on with their life.

 

Yeah, I say that’s a bunch of hooey.

 

Plus, I think at some point they added a couple extra stages. And now the “experts” agree that we go through different stages at different times – and sometimes we flip and flop and go through them randomly.

 

I know that Vince is not coming back. I know I need to keep on keeping on – since I’m still here and my life is not yet over.

 

But I know for sure I haven’t come anywhere near reaching the “acceptance” phase.

 

There are moments I get gob-smacked in the face with the realization he’s gone – almost as if I’m realizing it the same way I did the day he died.

 

And there are other moments I find myself laughing over something silly a friend says – and I’ll feel momentarily guilty that I’m not shrouded in depression.

 

But then there are those moments of depression. I feel them – and I know I’m in the midst of something that could drag me down into its depths, but I make the choice to let myself feel what I’m feeling without allowing myself to get dragged under.

 

Maybe that is a skill set that comes with age. Or maybe it’s just that I know there isn’t anyone to take care of me – but me.

 

So I agree that we just bounce around from stage to stage and back again. It sometimes feels like we take one step forward and then ninety-nine steps back.

 

After Vince died, I wasn’t sure I ever would get to an “anger” phase. It’s not like Vince intentionally died to get out of cleaning the garage. But I have to admit that when I have had to deal with something that was his forte and not mine, I’ll get angry.

 

I never wanted to handle the plumbing issues or negotiate a handy-man’s rate for drywall repair. Nor do I want to deal with getting the tires rotated or the oil changed in the car.

 

After I get angry and frustrated over his leaving me to handle those tasks, I feel a twinge of guilt. But I kind of give myself a break for feeling that way. Because I know for sure that Vince would have been angry at me if I’d been the one to die first.

 

Oh, he wouldn’t have been mad that I wasn’t there to do the handy-man negotiating or the tire rotating – but he darn sure would’ve been mad that he had to deal with the mountain of shoes and purses I would’ve left behind. Or the task of bill paying and figuring out what password went with what sign-on.

 

Personally, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he got angry because he suddenly had been tasked with every single one of Maggie’s walks – or making the decision about what to do with my 9,000 photo albums and scrapbooks that were stored in every nook and cranny in our house (some of which were actually my parents…).

He always said I wasn’t allowed to die first. I didn’t…but I thought that if he did die first, it would have been many years in the future.

 

In re-reading this blog, I realize that it’s just too long. People don’t want to read a book unless they’re actually reading a book. So I’m going to split this one up into two parts.  

Stay tuned for Part II…

Goin' Hog Wild

So what is a person to do when most of their summer activities have been cancelled due to COVID-19?  Sit at home and twiddle their thumbs?

Yeah, pretty much. Although the art of thumb twiddling has probably given way to thumb texting on smart phones. Which is a little different, I suppose.

Anyway. This year there are no swimming pools, no beach getaways, no summer concerts or big cookouts or summertime gatherings.

I didn’t realize how much I looked forward to all these activities until they weren’t open and available.

Every August, my friend Sue and I spend an entire day at the Ohio State Fair.  We walk from the back of the fair to the front and take in all the sights and sounds. We shop at some of our favorite vendors. We marvel over the annual butter sculpture and take the requisite

2019 Ohio State Fair Butter Sculpture

photos.

And, because Susan goes completely bonkers over any and all animals, we have to stop in and see the bunnies and chickens and cows.

We eat our favorite fair foods and drink frosty cold Lemon Shake-ups. And then, before we head to the exit, we make a final stop and top it all off with a funnel cake sprinkled liberally with oh-so-messy powdered sugar.

We’re pretty much in hog heaven all day long – and it’s something we look forward to all year long.

But this year the Ohio State Fair has been cancelled and I was sad to miss out on our annual visit.

So when Sue invited me to go with her to a small Madison County Jr. fair the other day, I jumped at the chance.

2020 Butter Sculpture?!

Yeah, I know. This is what extreme boredom will do to a person.

There were no rides or vendors. There were no butter sculptures. And there was mask wearing and social distancing going on.

But there were a few food trucks and we were thrilled that one of them sold funnel cakes.  We were in hog heaven!

Uh, maybe literally.

Because we sat down to share the funnel cake in a small arena where a “Swine Showmanship” event took place.

I had no clue what this sort of event was and I was fascinated as these kids competed with their pigs tapping on them with a stick left and right as they waddled around a dirt-filled ring. (The swine were waddling, that is…not the kids.)

There were as few as six swine in the ring – to as many as nine at any one time.  And there was but one judge who had the difficult job deciding last place to first place finishers.

I had no clue what was happening – and I couldn’t tell who was winning and who was losing.

So – because we were ignorant of the finer nuances of the competition, Sue and I took to making bad puns and jokes.

Sue started it, though. When the first group came out into the ring with pigs meandering around in no coherent manner that we could discern, Sue said it looked like they were trying to herd a pack of wild kittens.

And then I said something about one of the pigs going hog wild because he wasn’t following his handler’s directions.

Hey, trust me - we did the eye rolling thing at ourselves and at each other, too, so no worries.

Plus, it only deteriorated from there, so I’ll spare you the details.

But at least we had fun. And we really did have mad respect for all those kids who had spent the better part of a year raising their pig and training it for this competition.

So we finished our funnel cake and wiped off every last bit of powdered sugar before putting our masks back on to head back to the car.

And, while it couldn’t possibly compare to the Ohio State Fair, we had a great time.

After all, that’s what counts – right?

And hopefully next year life will return to normal (I’m being optimistic). When we can once again take photos of the butter sculpture and drink Lemon Shake-Ups and eat some delicious fair food and end the day with a funnel cake with powdered sugar.

So even if your weekend doesn’t include watching a swine competition, I wish you lots of fun and happiness in whatever you do.

 

A Walk With a Purpose

This year Vince and I have become involved with the 2020 Walk to End Alzheimer’s and are volunteering with the Marketing Committee.

It has been a strange year to be a volunteer. We can’t meet with others on the committee in person due to COVID-19. We can’t do all the marketing activities the organization has done in previous years like putting informational stickers on coffee cups and pizza boxes to garner interest in the 2020 Walk and in the mission of the Alzheimer’s Association.

So we have been doing a lot of virtual activities. We meet monthly over the phone and see each other on screen like a 2020 version of the Brady Bunch.

Our current strategy is to forge ahead with plans to hold the Columbus Walk to End Alzheimer’s at the Columbus Commons on Sunday, September 27^th.  There is also a virtual component to the walk, but we don’t yet know what that is going to look like.

Vince and I have also formed a team to walk – we are Team Forget Me Not. In honor of my mom. And in memory of all those who have succumbed to this disease.

Things change. And for all we know, the virtual walk will be all we can do because of coronavirus health concerns.

So we’ll take it day by day and week by week until it’s time to join together – either physically or virtually – to bring focus to Alzheimer’s. 

Research.

Programs.

Help.

I’ve read that Alzheimer’s affects one in four people. Certainly it has affected me and my family. My mother has been in a memory care unit for nearly four years, but has had the disease for over ten.

And while I would give anything to have my mother back the way she was pre-Alzheimer’s, I know that’s impossible.  

But what I can do is help raise awareness of the Alzheimer’s Association. And I can help raise funds for research to find a cure and to sponsor the programs the Alzheimer’s Association provides.

There are many worthwhile causes and many opportunities to give – so I don’t ask this lightly. But if you are in a position to help support our walk and cause, I would appreciate it more than you could ever know.

We would be honored to have you join our team, too, if you are willing and able.

Our link is: http://act.alz.org/goto/JaneandVinceCordova

And I thank you so very much!

You Are My Sunshine

One of the saddest days I’ve experienced in recent years with my mom dealing with Alzheimer’s was last summer when she broke her hip and was not doing well at the rehabilitation facility.

I had made the decision to cut her rehab short and move her back to the memory care unit. Hospice could once again be involved in her daily care and she wouldn’t be subjected to the difficult rehab that wasn’t working for her. She was in pain and couldn’t walk, had lost so much weight in a very short period of time and we thought we were losing her.

So plans were quickly finalized and I told the hospice nurse that I would be in mom’s room when they got her ready to move. The aide and the driver from Parkside Village would arrive and take mom and her bags in the van and I would follow behind in my car.

On my way there I received a call from hospice telling me the driver and aide had gotten mom and were on their way back to the memory care unit.

That was a surprise as they weren’t scheduled to pick her up for another hour or so. But since I was nearly at the rehab facility, I said I’d just pop in and make sure they had gotten everything. I also wanted to thank the nursing staff for the care they had given us.

When I got to her room I discovered that nothing had been packed. It was an unexpected oversight, but I assumed our signals had somehow gotten crossed and perhaps they thought I was planning to do the packing.

So I went to work. When I finished, I went out to thank the nursing staff. The aide I especially liked – her name was Avis – gave me a big hug and wished us both well. As I tried to hold off more tears (I’m becoming such a big baby in my old age), I told her what a blessing she was to us and how much we appreciated her efforts.

When I turned to leave she said, “Wouldn’t you like to see your sweet mama?”

I am sure the look I gave her was of utter disbelief. “Hasn't mom left to go back to Parkside Village?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “Your mom is in the TV room!”

So we walked to the TV room and a woman I didn’t even recognize was dozing in her wheelchair. Her bangs had grown out since she hadn’t had her hair cut since before her fall and she had two tiny little cornrow braids on either side of her head.

I smiled because I thought they were cute, but I laughed because I knew that mom would’ve hated her hair in braids.

My whole life I cannot remember mom doing anything to her hair other than the obligatory perm when she cared about that sort of thing. She never colored it. Her hair was always short, so she never wore it in a ponytail or a braid. And she never affixed a hair clip in her hair.

Mom's hair was not this big!

The only thing I can remember that was different about mom’s hair was a short period in the late 60s when she wore a wiglet. I don’t know why…maybe she wanted a little more of the bouffant hairstyle that was so popular back then and she didn’t have enough hair to achieve the look.

All I really remember was that it was gray (or “silver” as mom insisted we call the color of her hair). And to me that wiglet looked sort of like a dead squirrel in the little box she kept it in.

So I was a bit nonplussed by the cornrows, but I let it go. I figured someone was spending time with and caring about my mom.

We wheeled her back to her room just as the Joy, the aide and Johnny, the driver, came in to pick up mom.

Avis asked if she could sing her one final song before she left. Mom nodded – so Avis started crooning, “You Are My Sunshine.”

Johnny chimed in – and then mom tried to sing along, too.

I couldn’t have joined in if I tried.

I was standing behind mom’s chair, which turned out to be fortunate. Witnessing this moment of compassion between these caregivers just about broke me. I had tears streaming down my face – much as I do right now.

It was an incredibly poignant moment. Later, I wished I’d been able to capture it on video, though I don’t think I would have been capable of holding the camera at that moment.

But the memory will stay with me.

I know there are good caregivers and there are not so good caregivers out there.

That day I witnessed the very best.

So I’d just like to say thank you to all the people who care for someone else’s loved one. I, for one, am extraordinarily grateful.

And I thank you.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray

You’ll never know dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

                (Jimmie Davis and Charles Mitchell, 1939)